Not too long ago, I decided not to publish a post that questioned our promiscuous use of the word “heroes.” Were people heroes for doing the job they chose to do, were paid to do, were supposed to do? If it was a hard job under the circumstances, a job that many of us would have chosen not to do, but still needed done, then we appreciated that people did the job. They could have walked away. They didn’t. We were the beneficiaries of their efforts.

But did that make them heroes? Did calling them heroes cheapen the word? Maybe we are just in desperate need of heroes, and so we turn regular people into heroes for being regular people. In any event, it seemed unwise at a time when passions were high to raise a thoughtful question that was likely to evoke outrage and a backlash. So it never saw the light of day.

The other day, there was a rally in Kenosha where the father of Jacob Blake spoke. Had his son not been shot by a cop, who would have cared what this random guy had to say? Who would have allowed him to speak? Who would have listened, not that anyone was really listening anyway. But he spoke because his son was shot. Getting shot does not make you a hero. Or a saint. Or a villain. Or anything except the guy who got shot. And being the shot guy’s father doesn’t make you someone with something useful to say.

As a father, I feel the pain of another parent whose child was harmed. Whether they deserved it or not, or whether the word “deserve” has nothing to do with it, as in a child who was harmed, killed, by some entirely random event like a car crash, the pain to a parent doesn’t change. Jacob Blake’s father felt the bullets going into his son’s body, and I can feel empathy for his pain. But he’s still no expert on the wrongfulness of what happened, and he’s got no greater gravitas than anyone else as to what should be done about it.

Inexplicably, the woke have beatified their victims. George Floyd has been made a saint, even though he wasn’t exactly a saint when he as alive. Did getting killed make him a better person or just a dead person? Did this guy whose existence registered on no one’s radar before he had the grave misfortune to die at the hands of police become an icon because of his personal virtue or being some random guy who died?

People have been put on pedestals not because they have any specialized knowledge of social problems or their solutions, but because they are victims, or somewhat closely related to victims. Some of them have sought out the opportunity to use their grave misfortune to elevate their voice far beyond its merit had they not been victims. Others have been thrust into the spotlight by others, whether because they can be used to serve their purposes, they believe it’s the right thing to do or they can bask in the reflected glory of victimhood.

People who have suffered are often not equipped to deal with the spotlight, or those pushing them into it or putting on them. They find themselves suddenly subjected to extreme scrutiny, whether accurate or not, that comes back to smear them and tear them off the pedestal they never wanted. They find themselves enjoying the limelight a bit too much, desiring more attention and bootstrapping their sudden fame into a position of prominence they’ve done nothing to deserve. Being a victim doesn’t take skill or effort. It’s not a virtue.

What drives us to turn ordinary people, maybe sinners but rarely terrible sinners, into heroes for the world to adore, to admire, to honor? We put them onstage. Their words make headlines. Hundreds, even thousands, of people take their words to heart and feel as if their thoughts, their words, their pain, should somehow exert an influence over our thoughts, our actions, our policies. Why?

George Floyd’s brother, Philonise, spoke before the House Judiciary Committee on June 10th.

It makes for good theater, but is Philonise Floyd knowledgeable, no less an expert, about police practices and accountability? Indeed, he can’t even speak to the killing of his brother as he wasn’t there and knows nothing more about it than anyone else who watched the video of Floyd’s death, and likely far less than those of us familiar with police procedure and capable of reading autopsy reports.

It may “feel” right, because he’s George Floyd’s brother, but it makes no sense. As much as we can empathize with his loss, or from the flip side, ponder why he didn’t do anything to stop his brother’s drug use and less than admirable conduct on the street, he’s just a random fellow whose brother was killed. No better or worse. No more worthy of offering his views than any other random person.

Much of this can be attributed to our rejection of reason and replacement with emotion. The victims bring a story, and their story evokes feelings. If their story, and the feelings they evoke, further what our feelings have to say, then we’re all for their elevation to sainthood, to importance, to prominence atop the pedestal. Some will say they need a hero, particularly given a broadbased movement devoid of leadership and purpose. This person at the microphone gives us someone to focus our attentions on when there is mostly chaos around us otherwise.

But as much as we can empathize with the loss and pain of victims and their families, and we might feel the need for a hero, the desire for a focal point, they still have no actual merit beyond having the great misfortune of being the victim. Any idiot can be shot or choked. That doesn’t make them someone to heed, and there’s nothing heroic about being some random guy killed.